


Good God Let Me Give You

by wyrmy



Series: Our Hopes of Endless Light [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Character Study, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), M/M, i guess, pure angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27088333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrmy/pseuds/wyrmy
Summary: a brief examination of Aziraphale's relationship to the concept of Acts of Service.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Our Hopes of Endless Light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980841
Comments: 10
Kudos: 93





	Good God Let Me Give You

**Author's Note:**

> This is rated T because the idea of possibly having sex is briefly contemplated in the least explicit way possible. Also for passages about impending mortality and/or doom. this is just a very depressing piece of writing lol.

It was raining again, a grey and dreary sort of rain. In the restaurant, next to a steamed-up window, Aziraphale was holding forth on the subject of the supremacy of the British weather patterns, when he noticed that Crowley’s expression was wrong. It was a little too blank, a little too vacant even behind his sunglasses, and if Aziraphale wasn’t mistaken, his gaze was in the wrong place. He was looking not at Aziraphale, but past him. Aziraphale’s long ramble stammered to a halt. 

“Anyway,” he said, “I’ve been rambling a bit. My apologies.”

“It’s no bother, angel,” said Crowley in a languid tone, taking the barest sip of his wine. 

Aziraphale made himself smile. “Oh I’m sure you’ve heard quite enough of my opinions for today. Besides which, I’m certain I had begun repeating myself.”

“I didn’t notice,” shrugged Crowley. That was just the trouble, wasn’t it? Conversation remained stilted and soon enough Crowley was wool-gathering again, which, if he’d been a better man, Aziraphale wouldn’t have really minded. 

He’d already made his point about the weather, which was an excuse to covertly imply that he liked rain for very personal reasons, for very Crowley reasons, which was a poor overture of love, but as open as he dared, given the circumstances. He had nothing more to say, so why should he object to Crowley losing himself in his own thoughts. Aziraphale didn’t begrudge it him in the least, if only he knew, well… 

That was the way it often was, with other people. They liked him, sometimes very much indeed, but inevitably he did something, he never knew what, and then they decided that they didn’t like him after all. That was the way it had been with the angels. Possibly with God, too. That was why he was here on earth, where he wouldn’t be underfoot except in the most literal sense.

So, with the lovely nostalgic rain abating outside the window, Aziraphale worried that Crowley was tired of him. He tentatively raised a hand to tug at his waistcoat, allowing himself to feel the worn velveteen, the hardness of the buttons, the cool watch chain. If he adjusted his tie, which was never anything but perfect, Crowley would see that and think him nervous.

The bill would come soon anyway. That was the only real way to know.

Once the bill arrived, Aziraphale watched Crowley carefully, hoping against hope… Crowley produced his credit card, tapped it nonchalantly on the machine, and Aziraphale felt himself beaming. Crowley did like him after all. He grounded his relief, smoothing a hand down his thigh. He was worth buying lunch for. Crowley still liked him.  
“I don’t think that wine was quite the thing,” he said, on the sidewalk, holding his umbrella uselessly against his side in the absence of rain, “but my sommelier’s recommended me something new which I think might be of interest?” 

“Sounds good, angel,” said Crowley, opening his car door. Oh, how unthinkingly sweet Crowley was, to never know he was being tested but to pass each test with flying colours.  
It wasn’t, Aziraphale reflected once again as he poured out the new wine, that he really doubted Crowley in any way. It was simply that he doubted his own ability to capture the attention of someone so mercurial. Crowley was clever and noble, eccentric and righteous, while Aziraphale was… was different. Slow, earthbound, forever dragging himself through the mire while Crowley flew overhead, unencumbered. One day, either Crowley would disappear beyond the horizon, freely winging his way towards something newer and more interesting, or heaven would discover the Arrangement and everything would end. Sometimes Aziraphale did not know which was preferable.

Aziraphale was a great enthusiast for tragedies, he knew how they ended. An aesthetic and moral conclusion, where everyone marked for death has died. Tragedy was clean, it was mechanical, and it gave shape to the otherwise formless terror of pain. Aziraphale was marked for death, and someday, in whatever form, it would find him. 

He sat facing Crowley in his chair not because he didn’t want to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Crowley on the sofa, but because that wouldn’t be safe. He drank his wine but sobered up before he got demonstrative. Before he reached over and grabbed Crowley’s hand like he’d always dreamt of doing and got himself wrapped up in something he couldn’t untangle. 

But then, oh he couldn’t help it, he drunkenly evinced a desire for some take away curry for dinner, and Crowley, darling that he was, drunkenly staggered off to buy some.  
Aziraphale, all alone in his shop, pressed his wineglass to his cheek and so bore the happiness which threatened to engulf him.

If Hell discovered the Arrangement, Crowley might be able to spin it as a temptation. A genius plan: tempt Heaven’s agent on earth into sin so that heaven would kill him and lose themselves a valuable asset. If Hell were to find that the pair of them were having sex, even, he might convince them. But if they lived together, if they married, if they made love and cuddled afterwards instead of fucking casually, Hell would not forgive.

When Crowley came back with his box of takeaway, the box was warm. Aziraphale held and imagined it was Crowley’s hand he was holding.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm chipping away at three other multi-chapter projects, as well as more possible one shots like this one. Thanks for reading!


End file.
